


Kiss Me, Oh Morpheus

by wowzaKy



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: "ever wonder why George keeps sleeping through shit? Well wonder no longer" - my beta, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Injury, Dark, Gaslighting, George-centric, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Potions, Recovery, Sleeping Beauty Elements, Substance Abuse, Temporary Character Death, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:29:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28306809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wowzaKy/pseuds/wowzaKy
Summary: After encountering a witch, George is having trouble staying awake.But he's fine, right?Alternatively,There is somethingverywrong with George.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & GeorgeNotFound, Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Darryl Noveschosch & Sapnap, GeorgeNotFound/Pain
Comments: 23
Kudos: 130





	1. A Walk in Wood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Hello Everyone ::D
> 
> Most notes are at the end, but before that, chapter content warning!
> 
>  **c/w: (mild spoilers)**  
>  \- graphic injury description  
> \- non-consensual touching (not sexual)

There’s a full moon tonight.

Innocuous, it shines down on his back, reflecting off his enchanted netherite and illuminating his path a muted blue-grey. Before him, the forest line seems to stretch years, deep and dark and full of secrets. Groans and the clanking of jostled bones echo from its depths, the frantic pitter patter of spiders’ feet from somewhere beyond the shadows. Something sharp is in the air; pine needles, the smell of fall, undercut by iron, the sweetness of rotted flesh. With a huff (crystalizing in the air; he’s glad he remembered to layer up under the armor), George’s shoulders square in determination.

He’s ready.

Moonlight ceases the moment he steps into the dark, as if the forest swallows him whole, drowning his senses in pitch nothing. He is nothing if not prepared, though, and it’s with stable hands he pulls a torch from his inventory. It flickers, casting twisted figures who dance past his periphery and grin grim at him if he stares too long; he doesn’t.

This isn’t his first rodeo. George has braved far deadlier places, risked his life for far less than the potion ingredients he’s after tonight.

Time bends beyond the wood, and minutes or hours after he entered, he finds himself sticky with gore, his inventory stuffed to the brim. By his side, his sword hangs eerie, coated in substances he can’t name. His feet ache and his fingers are numb and he’s never going to be able to burn the stench of death from his nose, but he’s satisfied.

“Right” George hums, “time to go.”

Turning, he takes a step, boot crunching harsh against the dead foliage—

“Oh”

George crashes. Hard. Something cracks— his shin? — as his foot finds air instead of dirt, the leaves and twigs nothing more than camouflage for a hole, four blocks deep. A scream bursts from his lips, raw and loud, _too loud_ — before he clamps his jaw, teeth grit tight. If he attracts anything right now… he shudders to think of it.

Slowly, he pushes up. Angry, fire-hot flares shoot up his leg in protest. Sticky wet, his trouser leg pastes itself to his skin— He’s fine. He is _fine_. He’s pushed past worse.

 _Not at night_ , his brain whispers, _not like this. Not alone._

The nearby hiss of a creeper washes away those thoughts, and George forces his body upright. He stumbles. Rights himself against a tree and ignores the way the bark bites his bare palms. Cursing, he laments the absence of food or regeneration potions, having run out half-way through his hunt and gotten cocky. Afterall, he’s GeorgeNotFound, right hand man of Dream, himself. What, did he of all people, have to fear?

If the woods could, they’d be laughing.

One step. Two. On and on and onwards, he pushes himself through the mass of trees, freezing every time a branch so much as rustles; he’s all too aware of his place here; prey.

His leg screams and throbs and oozes; ignoring the way his bones shift— jumbling around inside his leg all wrong, broken puzzle pieces burrowing in his flesh with every single, agonized step— that’s the hardest part.

George perseveres.

By the time he spots the tree line, the ground is awash golden. _Sunrise._ He’s so relieved he could cry. He doesn’t, exhausted in every sense of the word, but the sound that slips under his teeth is closer to a sob than anything else. Clumsy, he shoves to the next tree, then the next. A few more steps to go and he’ll be free.

 _Next time_ , George thinks, ignoring the numb that’d settled into his leg, the burning in his palms, the gunk crusted in his armor, the leadenness of his feet, the dizzy swimming in his head, and the god awful, bloody smells of this god awful, bloody forest, _those pricks get their own potion ingredients._

He’s close enough to the edge now he can see the sky; rose-gold-orange smears peeking through patches in the canopy (though, it’s all bronze and gold to him). Warmth trickles down, and against his better judgment… he stops. Just for a minute. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. He’s so, so, so close to the tree line. Behind it, bathed in shadow, only the faintest rays of the morning sun shining down, he’s still in danger. Injured and in danger and stopping— stopping puts everything he’s done, every step and push and shove forward, in jeopardy.

Here’s the thing: George is, objectively, a confident guy. Oblivious at times, yeah, but secure in his standing on the server. Not only is he best friends with the admin, one of the richest in resources, and a powerful PVP-er, but he’s also, simply put, good at what he does. What happened tonight was a one-off. A rarely-happens, never-again-type deal.

Besides, once he reaches his house, he’ll be good as new. The multitude of regen. potions he has stocked could supply a whole army. All he has to do is escape. Which, he’s nearly done!

He may be hurt (hurt bad—like _bad_ bad), but he is close enough to the open sky that he allows himself a moment of rest. A moment to stop and bask in the soft heat, pretend he’s back in his home, safe and far away from here. Having spent the last however-long pushing himself forward, he reasons, one little pause couldn’t hurt.

(If he were honest with himself, he would admit he’s in a sorry right state— one he shouldn’t be taking lightly. Confidence does not equate invincibility. But George is, objectively, a liar)

So, he stops. Tilts his head back and stares up through a gap in the trees. Takes a breath of air, relishing in its (slightly) less stale taste. Sinking below the branches, now barely visible, is the moon; still full, still resplendent. It winks at him once and then it’s gone. Sunk too low for him to see. Limbs aching, he elects to rest a moment longer, pulling his goggles off to rub his tired eyes.

Cackling is all the warning he gets before glass smashes violently into the side of his head.

Glittering shards fly everywhere, nicking his skin, drawing pinpricks of blood. He drops his goggles, but doesn’t see where they fall, too busy catching himself in a panic against the nearest trunk.

_Fuck!_

Liquid plasters the hair sticking from his helmet to his forehead and rolls down his bare face, stinging his cuts, but George barely feels it. Can’t feel it, really, over the raw agony that explodes up his leg. A thousand angry fire ants chewing away at his flesh and nesting in his nerves. He can’t stop this time around; he screams. A choked thing that gets stuck in his throat and _burns._

The witch—because of course it’s a witch—cackles again, out of sight. Not that he can see much anyways, his vision blurry with whatever the fuck was thrown at him.

Waxy fingers, jaundiced, suddenly stroke his cheek, curled nails scraping his skin, and he flinches aside, almost losing his balance and tumbling once again. It feels like barbed wire has snagged inside his throat, tongue tasting of copper. He aches. There is a scratching sound behind his ear, nails dragging across metal. Hot, putrid breath brushes the nape of his neck exposed through the armor. The fingers curl around the corners of his helmet and he freezes.

This is it. The end. A rather stupid way to lose his first life (he knows he’ll have two left, but he doesn’t want to go like _this_ , doesn’t want to explain this to his friends—friends who’ll probably make fun of him, he’d do the same in their position and _what does that say about him?_ — he doesn’t want to admit he’s scared to die).

Ever still, the forest demands punishment for his hubris.

With a clank, his helmet drops to the roots. Sweat plasters his hair to his scalp, but that doesn’t dissuade the witch from carding its fingers through it, twisting and pulling his locks like they amuse it. He’s ashamed to realize he’s shaking, helpless to stop anything, uselessly leaned against a tree, injured as he is. Even if he tried to fight back, he doubts he’d make it far with his leg. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ Jaw tight, he swallows a cry. If he’s going to go, he’s going with a semblance of pride.

But the witch doesn’t kill him.

Simply… pets him. Like he’s a _bloody dog_. Drags its clammy hands through his hair, down his face, exploring. Never going farther, thank Notch, but not letting up. Mapping out the shape of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the lids of his eyes, squeezed shut, smearing the potion and bits of glass as it goes. The air is angry.

Somewhere past the first minute, George checks out. Mind tipping over the edge of the waterfall and plunging into the inky depths of the subconscious. He does not pass out, no, but he breathes and he is somewhere else and something is crawling under his skin and he burns and he breathes and liquid fire splashes down the bridge of his nose and he smells/tastes/hears something ancient and dead and he breaths and

He’s alone.

Sunshine smiles on him, where he’s laid back between the roots of the tree, their embrace tight, as if he’s been here ages and they’ve grown up around him, twining snug over his arms and legs. Groggy, George blinks and tries to get his wherewithal about him, disorientated and vulnerable. He feels like a kid again, swaddled in sleepiness, an invisible weight of a comforter holding him down. He knows he should be scared, but he can’t remember why, head full of cotton and tongue sandpaper dry. It tastes of blood.

Moving his limbs proves difficult, reactions slow as molasses, like there’s a lag between his brain and nerves, but a voice in the back of his head urges him to _go, go, go!_

So, he does. Or—well—he tries. It’s a battle to simply lift his head, to pry open his eyes— why is everything so bright? Where are his glasses? What happened?

There’s a stitch in his neck as he shakes it side to side, trying to knock some clarity into his mind, and a faint tingling burn in his hands as he curls his fingers inward, nails scraping across dirt. A twitch of his wrist has him hitting smooth plastic, cold and damp with morning dew. Fingers fumble it closer, coming to clasp around circular lens, his goggles? If so, he groans at the realization he’s smudging them to the End and back. _Ew._

Summoning what little strength he can, George heaves up so that he’s supported by his elbows. The roots restrict him from a fully seated position, so an awkward, stilted one it is. Lethargy poisons his every move, each slow breath a threat to drag him back under the depths of slumber. He… He needs his communicator. Black spots dance in his vision, unused to unfiltered light ( _Notch, it’s bright_ ), but he blinks them back. Where’s his communicator? All he can see is never-ending trees, but if he tilts his neck just right, he can make out the beginnings of a field, tall grass swaying in some unfelt breeze. Sucking in a deep breath, he shifts back, joints creaking, muscles whining, so he has the leverage to stretch his left palm out—his goggles in his right—and mentally reaches into his inventory for his netherite sword. It drops with a thunk, landing firmly in his outstretched hand, though he strains to keep his grip, weak as it is. Knuckles trembling, he scoots the blade down inch by inch until the sharpened edge digs into the flesh of his hand. Levels it against the wood. Begins to saw. Bit by bit.

It’s slow going. That’s… to be expected. He nearly drops his sword a multitude of times, and his joints feel raw by the time he manages to finally cut free his wrist from the first root.

“What happened…?” He mumbles, flinching at the hoarseness of his voice, the shooting pain in his vocal cords. _Okay. Talking’s a no go, then._

George shifts his sword until it’s against the next root and starts again. Continuing on and on and on until he’s free; sitting up has never been more a struggle.

Center of gravity spinning, he stumbles out into the field, glasses in one hand, sword in other, legs wobbling like he’s a newborn deer chancing its first steps, except someone’s pulled a wool over his eyes and every jolted motion threatens to spill bile from his lips, sick sloshing in his chest.

To be completely frank, it’s a miracle he makes it home.

Warm spruce and oak greet him as he clatters inside, torch-heat kissing his frozen cheeks. He drops his sword back into his inventory and places his goggles on a table, hand reaching up only to be surprised when his pads hit coarse hair.

_Huh? Where… where did my helmet go?_

The thought floats away before he can really ponder it, his feet shuffling towards his bed—or, well, the chest at the foot of it. Haphazardly, he collapses onto the rough cotton sheets, his remaining armour following his sword into his inventory. Sweat and gore paste his shirt and trousers to his body—he cringes at the smell, he reeks—as he leans down into his chest for, finally, that much needed regeneration potion.

It sizzles down his throat as he practically inhales it, bitter taste staining his tongue, and he grimaces, wiping his mouth with a half-hearted, “Gross”

The sizzling spreads down his chest, echoes in his veins, and instantly George feels better. Exhausted, confused, uncomfortable beyond belief, sure, but the persistent ache fades into a dull tingle as scrapes and bruises close and heal.

With a grunt, he swings his legs up next to him and then—

He sees _It._

His trouser leg’s all torn, stiff with dried blood. But that’s not what makes his heart jump up his throat, no.

_It’s the scar._

Gnarled an ugly purple, it crawls up his shin to his knee, inch thick corded scar tissue. It looks hideous. Unnatural.

For some reason, he thinks back to the twisting branches and roots and with trembling fingers he trails the mark, and it thrums and suddenly—

Last night’s memories slam into him like a freight train.

The snap of his bone as it tore through his flesh like wet tissue, glass in his face and the itch of a splash potion, cracking laughter and corpse fingers combing through his hair—

How could—how could he forget?! Why, how, why would he— _oh Notch, oh my god_ —he forgot—he _forgot_ oh Notch he forgot _he forgot, how, why did he_ —

**_What did that witch do to him?!_ **

George leans over the side of his bed and promptly pukes up his guts.

Instantly, vomit stinks up the room. His leg throbs, as if reminding himself of its existence flicked a switch in his brain, and oh yeah, he’d snapped his bone last night.

But _somehow_ , it’d already healed, leaving behind the ugliest scar he’s ever had the misfortune to see.

Collapsing back into his bed, he presses his hands into his eyes and groans.

What’s he gotten himself into, now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG BIG BIG THANKS TO MY WONDERFUL & AMAZING BETAS FOR THIS CHAPTER @Miredo_Doremi AND @StripedGrace !!!!!  
> I couldn't have done this without them uwu  
> I'm inept & can't figure out how to link, BUT-  
> Go check out their stuff!! They're both phenomenal humans who deserve all the support. 
> 
> Also, big thanks to everyone on both discord servers for giving me motivation and ideas for this fic. Y'all are great <33
> 
> For everyone who read through the chapter & is actually reading this end note lmao, hope y'all enjoyed! kudos and comments fuel me and any feedback is greatly appreciated! 
> 
> Until Next Time :))


	2. A Denial of Genesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George deals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh?? is this?? plot??

A week passes in normality. Meaning, George spends the next week shoving every memory and feeling associated with his night in the woods into the bloody void. Besides, nothing had come of it but a weird wake-up in a tree, a lingering sense of paranoia, and a hideous purple reminder. He covers the long scar by permanently switching his wardrobe to trousers (not that that was too hard. George could count on hand the number of shorts he owned) and steel toed boots that reached mid-shin. If he doesn’t see it, doesn’t think of it, well… 

_Ping_  
_Ping_  
_Ping_

In his back pocket, his communicator buzzes, incessant, like a fly trapped in plastic blinds, and he sighs, pulling it out with a roll of his eyes, barely skimming the never-ending scrawl of yellow before hitting mute and shoving it back. He didn’t have the mental energy for that bullshit today. 

Sleep hangs heavy above him as he leans on the railing of his balcony, the sun blanketed in a sheet of grey and the air crisp with the changing of seasons. Soon, the leaves will darken and fall and cold will grip the lands of the server. Snow will slip from the heavens to the fields, burying life with it. Maybe he’d see some. Though, considering his location, it’s unlikely. 

After the Disc War, as it’d come to be known, George took one look at the remains of Sapnap’s house, Ponk’s tree, literally all the land around Tommy’s base, and promptly said fuck that. As much as he loved the Community House, there was no guarantee his stuff would be safe there. Honestly, he should’ve considered moving earlier, given the area’s penchant for anarchy. Packing his valuables up, he, Dream, and Sapnap took a day to travel a few thousand blocks away until they found a place George felt good settling down at; Sapnap wanted to rebuild his original house in spite and Dream claimed to have a separate, secured stronghold in some undisclosed location—though he promised to show them later, never one to keep things from his closest friends. Once the spot had been decided—a lush prairie spotted with wildflowers and ferns that bordered a deep forest of dark-oak—the three got to building until George had a cottage and a quaint vegetable garden. Between them, it only took a few hours to get him settled in. The only downside of his safe house was the abhorrent travel time to the hub of Dream SMP. Although, it did mean he got privacy, not many willing to come so far on a consistent basis besides Dream, Sapnap, and Bad. Don’t get him wrong, his friends were great, but even he could admit they could be… a lot. And if people _really_ needed him, well, they could always message him via communicator. 

All this being said, the field he lives in tended to be spared from the harsher elements, the most severe weather experienced to date being a particularly loud thunderstorm. Snow is the silliest of worries here, though one did have to be wary of the frigid night temperatures in the thick of winter. 

With a huff, George leans further over the railing, staring up at the monochrome sky. If he squints, he can almost make out a flock of birds flying south in the distance, one of them abnormally large compared to the rest, and heading his way? Wait- 

“He didn’t.” Irritation spreads through his bones and he scowls, watching the “bird” fly closer and closer, until he can clearly see the shimmering yellow wings and navy tracksuit + beanie combo that signified the arrival of his old friend, Quackity. Great. Fantastic. Not like he’d turned off his communicator for a reason. Nope. 

“George, you fucker! Why the hell have you been ignoring my calls? Seriously dude, I’m pretty sure I messaged you, like, over a hundred times before I bothered Sapnap for your coords- speaking of that, why the fuck are you so far from the hub, holy shit-” 

“Hey Quackity.” He sighs as the duck hybrid skids to a stop to perch atop his balcony railing, wings still flapping with the chaotic energy Quackity seemed to thrive off. 

He jumps down from the rail, rocking back on his heels and flailing his hands around as he talks, “George, George, dude, where the fuck have you been?? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you since yesterday!” 

“I’ve been at my house, obviously. Where else?” 

“And you couldn’t have answered my calls?!”

“Geez Quackity, I didn’t know you were so clingy.” George smirks.

Spluttering, Quackity’s face turns an interesting shade of pink, his wings puffing up in indignation. “I- George, what the fuck man? I’m not clingy! And anyways-”

“You are though.”

“ANYWAYS- I have a proposition for you.” He grins, and George turns to fully face him. “How’d you like to be my Vice Prez in the upcoming elections?” 

“... The what,” George deadpans. What elections? As far as he knew, the main SMP was a monarchy—though dictatorship may be more apt—with Eret as the ruling king (under Dream’s command, of course). Why would they ever need to hold elections? And why would Quackity, of all people, be interested in running? The man isn’t really known for his skills in politics so much as his skills in partying.

“The elections!” When he receives no response save for a raised brow, Quackity groans. “You know? In L’Manberg?” 

He scoffs. “Why would I care about some election in _L’Manberg_ of all places?” 

“Be- _cause_ ,” Quackity stretches out the word, leaning into George’s personal space like he has any business being there, “I need a running mate and I want that running mate to be you.” He pokes him in the chest for emphasis and George barely holds back a flinch ( _this is the first time he’s been touched since…_ ). 

Slapping his hand away, he looks back out over his yard. At the field and the summer wildflowers, pale and dying off as nature prepares to make its seasonal switch. At the trees at the fields end, the trees that wrap around thicker behind his home, thick enough that it's hard to see but a few feet ahead when you're entrenched in their depths, even harder in the dead of night. 

Quackity pouts, holding his hand close to his chest with an offended expression. “What the hell man- what was that for???” 

“Don’t- You were in my space.”

“In your space?!?” He squacks. It reminds George so much of an angry, clucking chicken that he can’t help but burst into his signature, airy chuckles. They’re almost enough to quell the nervous static in his chest. 

“Wha- George! Don’t laugh, you bastard!” Still staring off into the trees, George misses how Quackity’s indignance melts into worry, then relief, as Quackity ups the theatrics. “Really. I’m hurt! Crushed! I’ll never love again!” He wipes a fake tear from his eye as he joins George in leaning on the rail. 

All too happy to move past… whatever _that_ was, George retorts with a mocking, “As if you were on my level in the first place.” 

“Geoooorge-”

“What? I’m only telling the truth.”

“Dude, why are you so fucking mean to me?!”

“Honesty is the best policy.” He snickers, and they fade off into silence as Quackity pouts next to him. For a brief moment, the sun pierces through the blanketing cloud, but it’s gone before he can truly appreciate it. A few minutes later, his friend sighs, stretching his arms up to the sky.

“I wasn’t joking, I do want you to be my running mate, George,” Quackity says, oddly serious. George doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound that serious in his life. It’s… strange, and he’s so tired, but for all his jabs, he _does_ care, so he hums in acknowledgement, signalling Quackity to go on. 

He sighs, wings tucking in as he rests his head on his forearms, hands clasped over the rail. “I know that you don’t care about L’Manberg, hell- Neither do I, if we’re being completely fucking honest. But- Wilbur has no right to be doing what he’s doing. A single party election? What, is he fucking insane?? That’s not a democracy, that’s a dictatorship- rigging that shit like that. And that’s not all!” Suddenly, Quackity pushes up, wings puffing out in anger, “When I first joined, he had the audacity to bar me entry from his country on _account of my accent_. Like- What the fuck, man! Niki got him to repeal, thank the gods, but now he’s pulling this- this fucking _scam_ ,” Quackity turns to him and George finds himself meeting his gaze. “I’ve already secured my position on the ballot, I just need a vice.” 

“And you want me?” George scoffs. “Why?” 

“Because, you- you’re GeorgeNotFound! Do you know what a big ball power move that would be?” George crosses his arms, unimpressed, and Quackity is quick to tack on, “Plus! You have experience in higher positions ‘cause of Dream, and you’re smart as hell, and you’re my friend, man, I want to run with you!” 

“... Quackity, no offense, but running with you sounds like an utter waste of my time.”

Instead of squawking or screeching or whatever the fuck it is Quackity does, however it is that George expects he respond, Quackity inhales, then exhales, eyes closed. When he opens them, there is no trace of amusement or joking or mockery, instead a surprising sharpness, and he says, “What do I need to do to convince you?” 

“What?” 

“What do I need to do to convince you to run with me?” Quackity repeats. 

“You don’t need to do anything,” he responds, equal parts exhausted and amused. “My answer is no.” 

“George, _please_.” 

“I…” 

His scar is brushing odd against the fabric of his trouser leg. Scuffed against the rim of his boot. It itches. 

What, really, is he losing if he runs? His time, obviously, though what else would he be using it for? Sitting bored in his home, dicking around with his friends, grinding for supplies he already owns? The truth of the matter is that George doesn’t have an excuse—he simply doesn’t want to. Simply doesn’t care. Doesn’t care about L’Manberg, or its stupid election. Doesn’t care enough about Quackity’s righteous anger; though he does care about Quackity himself, don’t get him wrong, it’s just that, well, being Vice President sounds awfully dull. So. 

Quackity will have to find someone else for the job. If he cared enough to apologize, he would, but… 

His leg itches. 

As if reading his mind, Quackity goes to grab George’s shoulder before hesitating, changing course, and crossing his arms instead. 

“At the very least,” he pleads, “think about how being in L’Manberg’s office benefits not only you, but _Dream."_

That gives George a pause. 

Since the end of the revolutionary war, L’Manberg’s been a blemish on the otherwise perfect lands of the Dream SMP. Its yellow and black walls are an eyesore, its citizens an annoyance, etc., etc. Not that George really _minds_ per se, it’s just ever since they broke off from the SMP proper, Dream will not stop complaining about it. And he gets it, right, he understands why Dream’s upset. But Notch, it’s irritating, listening to the same complaints over and over and over again. Like, Tommy’s an annoying child, _we get it_ , geez… 

George takes a minute to seriously consider it, though. Squirrels away his childish thoughts and tries to picture his life, Dream’s life, if he joined Quackity and wormed his way into their enemies’ government. 

Maybe L’Manberg could be convinced to recant their independence claim? Rejoin their rightful position under Dream’s rule? 

...But no. Those stubborn assholes would never budge, especially not after the war and the discs and all that. George understood their desire to be free. They were just going about it all wrong- focusing too much on feelings and greed to realize they were safer, _free-er_ , under the Dream Team’s jurisdiction. 

Nevermind then. He would still be in a position of power. He can use that. 

While L’Manberg would not cede back into the SMP in its current state, that didn’t mean it never would. 

If he runs- _big if_ \- and if they win, George would have ample opportunity to start implementing changes. Small changes. So menuet that the country’s citizens wouldn’t notice until it was too late, until they had no other choice but to rejoin Dream. Notch, maybe by then they’d even welcome it. Maybe by then George wouldn’t have to lift a finger, and maybe by then the citizens would come to their senses all on their own. 

Then maybe, fucking maybe, Dream would stop complaining every five minutes and actually spend time with him—and the rest of their friends. They’d all live in peace, harmony, no more inane wars or pointless fighting. 

Holding one over Wilbur Soot would certainly be funny. 

If Quackity lost the elections, a likely outcome, nothing would change for him. He could go back to his far off cabin and sleep. He really wants to sleep. Some deep part inside him beg he curl up and close his eyes, itching like a bug bite he just can’t ignore. 

His leg itches. 

“George?” Quackity waves a hand in front of his face, a perplexed furrow to his brow. 

“... I’ll do it.” 

“Are you- wait. Wait, wait, wait what??” Quackity gapes. “For real??” 

Ugh. 

He sighs., “Don’t make me regret this.” 

“Holy shit!! Fuck yeah!!!” Quackity pumps his fist, all seriousness bleeding away as his wings flap in excitement and he subconsciously lets out a soft trill. “You won’t regret it, man, no fucking way- this is going to be so good! We’re popping off baby!” He crows. 

Notch, George can already tell he’s made a mistake. Too late to take it back, though, so he rolls his eyes and tries to hide the quirk of his lips. He fails. 

“Yeah, yeah,” somewhere in the distance there’s the ringing of a bell, “Now. Please, for the love of all things holy, get off my property, Quackity.” 

Quackity laughs, but stretches out, flexing his muscles in preparation. “Will do, will do! I’ll message you more about the campaign later, yeah?” 

“Sure.” 

“Gods- this is gonna be so great, Wilbur won’t know what fucking hit him!” He grips the railing. “Thank you George, really, fuck, this means a lot, you don’t even know.” Quackity trills again, eyes sparkling, and he vaults over the rail, wings pushing him up in a powerful gust that ruffles George’s hair. 

He watches as the hybrid flies off just as quick as he came, a whirlwind. As soon as he’s completely out of render distance, not even a speck, George sags against the railing with a groan. Unease is making him queasy. Churning in his stomach like a bad apple. Not because of Quackity, but because... 

George fumbles back into his house, not locking the door behind him as the cool air of the outdoors suddenly turns overbearing, too much against his skin, making him hyper aware of how his bangs brush his forehead and his new scar presses against the scratchy trouser fabric. 

He’s fine. Everything’s fine. 

( _Maybe if he keeps repeating it, it’ll be true_ ) 

The warmth of the indoors wraps around him like a soft weight, emphasizing the lethargy in his bones, but as much as he wants to, he can’t afford to rest just yet. He’s got shit to do. Potion resources to sort, letters to write, contracts to draft. And now a presidential campaign to help run. Whoopee. 

But first. 

George straps on his chest-plate, leg-guards, pulls on his boots and fills his inventory with all the necessary tools. He’d stay home, Notch does he want to stay home, but it’s probably high time to hunt his best friend down and fill him in on his new plan. 

Heh. So much for a peaceful morning. 

Above him, the morning sky breaks blue, finally waking up. 

His leg itches. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to my wonderful betas, I couldn't do this without you <3333
> 
> ngl this chapter is more set-up and development than anything, but be prepared for things to uh- escalate, should we say
> 
> kudos & comments r hella appreciated, & I hope everyone has a poggers day!


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